


After Me Comes The Flood

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [25]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angry Sam, Bottom Dean, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam Winchester, Scared Sam, Sick Dean, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4485011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alpha has restrained himself, is cognizant of the fact that Sam’s inherent aggression will not serve his brother well, here.</p><p>In which Dean's lab results are in, and Sam is on a one man mission.</p><p>Sam POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Me Comes The Flood

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Après Moi, by Regina Spektor. Bless this song and all its relevant-to-this-verse lyrics.

Dean’s lab work comes in when Sam is on the outskirts of the city, buying groceries.

Dean hasn’t had any particularly strange food cravings, getting him to eat anything at all has been enough of a struggle. Dean won’t eat any starches, Sam’s made six burgers in four days, and his brother’s taken approximately seven bites. (Tuesday was an exciting day).

He’s got five bags full of fruits alone, Dean doesn’t dislike those, just tends to overlook them, and Sam thinks now might be his chance to get his brother addicted. He’s been consuming cherries like they’re going out of style, apologetic grunt as he does so, one protective hand encircling the well-pronounced bump of his stomach.

Dean’s first trimester is completed, only has one more until the pups are viable. Doesn’t know how he’s going to solve this.

Doesn’t want Dean to meet his kids like he’s just the host of his own party, mingle with no resolution.

Dean calls when he’s navigating the cart to the Impala, one handed, while he pats himself down for the keys. Alpha is a lazy feline, blissful in the knowledge that he’s taking care of his family (preserving them), wildly intent, indoctrinated crusader.

Sam flips open the phone with no light amount of consternation. Dean never calls him, not if he can truly help it. Most phone calls they receive are related to the hunt, no one calls to just to check up, or in.

“What’s wrong? Dean?”

His brother’s voice is muffled, snort of laughter trickling through the line, assuaging Sam’s concern nearly instantly. “Calm down, Dark Knight. Clinic called. Got my lab results back, want to see if we can come in immediately.” Alpha and Sam both snarl at that, unified front, and Sam hears Dean’s instinctive intake of breath.

“M’fine, Sammy. He would’ve told me if I were walking distance to my death.” Dean snickers at his own joke, self-deprecating, is aware of how true this is.

“I’m on my way home, Dean. Can you be ready when I get there?” Dean sighs, and Sam can hear the catch of his breath as he stands. “Can’t fucking see my boots to tie ‘em so you’ll need to do that.” Sam flushes, driving already, fruits and hopeful grains tossed haphazardly in the backseat.

“No problem, baby.”

Dean growls a bit, Sam knows he’s uneasy with the pet name, welcomes it and shuns it in equal measures, two faces of the same demon.

Dean’s waiting patiently at the front door when he pulls up, Sam’s old black coat slung over too-thin shoulders, entire body willowy. He’s tangling his fingers in and out of themselves, gnawing at his lower lip compulsively, spit slick and bruised. Sam hops out, engine still running, isn’t really sure why he feels so frantic.

Heart making itself a home in his throat, tremors of cold tickling at his spine. Dean raises his eyebrows, glances appraisingly at his car. “Gonna clean it if the dust gets in cause you left the damn door wide open, Sam?” Sam snaps his neck back at the ‘67, mouth half frowning.

“What? Dean? Sure. I’ll clean the damn thing top to bottom. Gimme your foot.” Dean obliges, probably secretly thrilled that Sam has to do this, while at the same time he’s red as hell, left hand wrapped tight around the back of his neck. “Hurry up, Sam. Man doesn’t have all day.”

Sam laces the other one, tight as Dean likes them and helps him down the stairs, runs easy fingers over his brother’s swell. Scents them hungrily, like he didn’t just smell them an hour ago. They smell sedated, soft and meek, faint breeze as a small reminder of the storm that’s passed.

Sam misses smelling their playfulness, all sand and salt-wind. Wants Dean to chatter at them, the way he does when he’s feeling especially safe and cared for. His brother’s face is pinched as he delicately lowers himself into the passenger seat, former warmth exchanging itself for a sickly pallor.

Sam keeps one eye on the road and the other angled at Dean, one hand cradled in his lap, disarmingly helpless. “Dean? You okay?”

Hates to ask. Knows Dean abhors the questioning, makes him feel less than, somehow. Brittle blade of grass wilting in the sun, threshold of death as it continues to shudder in the wind. Dean turns to face him, tight smiles and white. “M’okay, Sam. Just fucking tired. M’always tired. Think I’m gonna be dead, but I won’t know it, cause it’ll feel the same as being so tired.”

Alpha is a muted roar, copper fur standing in angry tufts, caramel eyes wide-eyed with panic. Sam grits his teeth. Alpha can sense it too.

He’s terrified. That’s what this is.

Sam carries Dean inside, doesn’t ask, simply does, can see that his brother is already taxed, and he’s done nothing but walk to the car. Dean doesn’t complain, and Sam has to bite at his own jaw repeatedly, heals too quickly to be of any real use, to contain himself. Dean licks at his neck, once, in exhausted comfort.

Slumps into the warmth of his arms with the most quiet of keens, body shivering tremulously.

There’s no waiting period, they have an appointment, and Dr. Lee appraises them coolly, beatific smile in place, but it’s tempered. Sam’s fingers are probably digging into Dean’s pale flesh too hard, claret indentions next to little stars of cinnamon.

“Dr. Lee,” Sam begins, no formality, hushed tones and worry. He’s enveloped Dean in anxiety, hot sauce and peppers, volatile scent. Prerequisite of dynamite. The doctor nods his greeting, grips one thumb in the loose hold of the other. “You’re Alpha, Mr. Winchester, and I’ve no doubt you can sense that something is wrong with your Omega.”

Sam does not move. Alpha isn’t livid yet, but it’s never taken him much to get there, especially when the focus pertains to Dean, and his well-being. Sam wills his wolf be silent, and quakes in the hard plastic seat as a result. Dean shuffles closer to him, and Sam bites down on his lip, can see Dean trying to find protection in any way he knows how.

“Your husband has a rather severe case of OFS.” Sam is momentarily shaken, rattles his brain for where he first heard of that and why. Recalls that he studied a case concerning this in pre-law, at Stanford. Company was refusing to provide medical leave for a pregnant Omega suffering from the condition.

“Omega Fatigue Syndrome.” Sam utters it dully, and Alpha is frozen, jaw tight and teeth bared, crouched and hidden. Sam can’t waste a second on thinking of how to curb him. “S’been a long time since I read up on that. Can you narrow it down for me?” Dr. Lee smiles forlornly, rises to hand Sam some pamphlets that he crushes unintentionally in his free hand.

“Mr. Winchester will seem to sleep all the time, but never feel rejuvenated. He will, most likely, if not already, be experiencing difficulties eating and keeping food down. He’ll be light-headed and dizzy, more often than not, and any stress at all will make him more predisposed to eclampsia, and due to his bloodwork and blood pressure measurements, this is a distinct possibility.” Dr. Lee rubs at his eye with one hand, continuing to stare directly at Sam.

“He will need to remain on bed rest. Complete and total. I’ll need to provide him with parenteral nutrition, as he and the pups are suffering from the lack.” Sam narrows his brow and looks down at his brother, eyelids shut, spring-green eyes twitching in repose underneath them. He’s got no color at all, and, as if he can sense Sam, he tangles himself up further in the coat, and Sam hums in his throat instinctively, abrupt noise of propriety and love.

He’s so damn gone on Dean. House of bricks on sand, plundered by the waves.

Alpha has restrained himself, is cognizant of the fact that Sam’s inherent aggression will not serve his brother well, here.

The doctor is smiling, as if he knows this is difficult and is loathe to give this speech. “Of course, we will monitor him, and if the condition alters, we can lessen some restrictions. But your husband will not get better on his own. We need to jumpstart it, for him.” Sam grunts, looks away from Dean for a second.

“He won’t like this. He’ll fight me every step.” Dr. Lee grins, the first real emotion that’s flickered across his face so far. “He seems hard-headed. I wouldn’t enjoy crossing him.” His grin fades and is replaced with a calculating look. Sam sits up, hairs on the back raised. Can scent determination, of a sudden, and he’s not the cause.

“Alpha to Alpha, Mr. Winchester, I’m not a fan of imposing Alpha-will on mates. Not as a matter of routine, of course. But I would advise that you consider it, strongly.” He sits back down suddenly, forearms on thighs, and leans into Sam’s space.

“He will die, and the pups too, if he’s allowed to continue on this way. It’s your responsibility to avoid that.” Sam snarls his full agreement, knows Dr. Lee’s Alpha recognizes and accepts the response, because his shoulders sag, and he relaxes minutely.

“The Clinic will provide nursing staff to the address you indicated when you filled out your paperwork. They’ll be by to set up everything needed for IV therapy.” The doctor seems thoughtful, examines Sam’s protective crouch over Dean’s prone body. “I don’t foresee you having many issues.”

Sam’s rising, brief smile for Lee, who is a kind man, for all his personal advice and attention to details. The doctor walks him out, spares a wistful smile for Dean. “He’s a beautiful Omega, Mr. Winchester. You’ll have very handsome pups.” He pauses, lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Once the pups are getting food again, they’ll perk up more. They’re suffering from just as much fatigue as their father, only it will become worse quicker, for them. They don’t have a lot of ways to combat this.”

As Sam buckles his brother into his seat, rests his head delicately against the window, he wonders if there isn’t some capricious God out there that needs Dean dead for his own endgame.

Sam carries his brother upstairs, to their bedroom, and Dean remains undisturbed, only movement to shudder once, and whisper Sam’s name. Sam has Dean enthroned in his bed, body tangled solely in Sam’s green overshirt. His brother was a bit warm upon the return, and Sam wrestled him out of his boxers, smiling cheekily as he imagined his brother’s response, were he awake.

_M’not a cheap whore, Sammy._

Kisses Dean four times on his head and leaves, striding purposefully from Bobby’s house, doesn’t call to ask when Bobby thinks he’ll be home.

He’s seven miles from his brother, feels the separation acutely. Cold Oak.

He’s penetrated deep in the forest, crude pentagram scrawled in the dirt around him.

He tugs his flannel open and off, accidentally smears earth on his abruptly bare, exposed arms. He pats the earth with the butt end of his shovel, covering the box beneath.

Turns around slowly, cause Alpha’s alive, can sense everything, before Sam’s even able to fully grasp it.

“Well then. Look who decided to give Hell a ring. Sam Winchester himself. Batman’s Robin.”

The wooden handle of the shovel splinters in Sam’s hand, and it’s an unconscious thing, shards of wood embedding themselves deep within his palm. Sam can’t even feel them, too occupied with staring into the face of a middle-aged man, flat brown hair and brown eyes, unremarkable beard.

Dressed all in black, long obsidian trenchcoat, cutting accent, tangled up with the distinct sound of amused boredom. His eyes flash red for just a second, so abruptly that Sam doesn’t think he’s supposed to see it, isn’t sure why he did, and then the man is grinning, crows feet appearing in the angles of his eyes.

He looks perfectly at ease within the Trap, controlled but loose limbs, hands buried in coat pockets.

“You must be Crowley.”

Crowley smiles again, snakes kiss, and guffaws.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the bright one?”

Sam remains as unruffled as Alpha will allow him, brushes dead wood from between the webbing of his fingers.

“If you were a little bit brighter yourself, you’d know that pissing me off is not the way to guarantee your _deal,_ Crowley.”

The demon is all malicious teeth and death-scent, sewage and roaches, tangled in a landmine of filth. Sam cannot scent where the host begins and the demon ends. Gathers the sense that they’ve been one and the same, for a very long time.

“Is that a yes, then? Are you ready to do business?”

Sam rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck from side to side and the sound of it sets Alpha in motion, and he’s tumbling forward out of his cage, lands on all fours like a cat.

Sam doesn’t even make an effort to impede his incisors as he leans forward, that much closer to the demon.

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, deal-time. My favorite.


End file.
